my life,
it was always this white canvas,
but she arrived,
and she was the painter,
that brought out her palette, and paintbrush,
and started splashing colors all over,
this now colorful canvas.
my life,
was just plain paper,
until she, the writer,
started to print on it,
until finally,
the plain paper turned into a lovely book,
made by a lovely writer.
YOU ARE READING
letters to you.
Poetrydoesnt have a genre, this'll be my diary for the person i like but since i dont have the courage to tell her these, im just going to write them. dont attack me because of the future mistakes i'll make. i may or may not edit this, for, as i said, thi...
